She’d given the walls of the kitchen a fresh coat of limewash, scrubbed out every drawer and cupboard, and set the prettiest pieces of pottery out on the dresser shelves. She even added a display of rowan twigs bright with berries in a blue jug on the table. The whole place looked so much cleaner and tidier, as if someone cared for it at last.
‘I might sew some cushions for the settle.’ She glanced across at her husband, rather anxiously. ‘What do you think, Amos? Would you mind?’
‘Why would I mind?’ he asked, his face as inscrutable as ever.
‘Esther didn’t care for cushions, did she?’
After the smallest pause, he said, ‘It’s not Esther’s kitchen any more, it’s yours.’
Ella felt a small glow of happiness inside at these words.
Mrs Jepson came round regularly and helped Ella to stock the larder with pickles and jams and preserves, bottled plums and damsons, all ready for the coming winter. She even managed to nudge more effort out of Mrs Rackett, by gently bullying the old woman out of her chair now and then to help.
The dairy was scrubbed scrupulously clean every single day, and Ella finally put her foot down over the rats in the barn, which were growing in number. ‘They’ll be infesting the house soon if you don’t do something to get rid of them.’
Amos regarded her in that quiet, thoughtful way of his, the shadow of a smile twitching the corners of his mouth. Then he called in Tom Mounsey with his two terriers, and the rats were duly dealt with in speedy fashion.
Ella had come to love the dale, almost welcomed its quiet solitude, her fear of it quite gone. She no longer felt overawed by the steep slopes of Froswick and Ill Bell, the cold greyness of Rainsborrow Crag or the fickleness of the weather that would soak her almost dry sheets in seconds. She loved the constant gurgle of water as it rushed in ever widening rivulets down to the River Kent. Nor did she mind the boggy ground that would catch her unawares and suck off her boots, the silent watchful sheep or the dour black cattle. These elements that had once alarmed her now seemed to be a vital part of its wild, magical beauty.
She had her own secret places and would walk out most days either up to the waterfall by the reservoir or down to the packhorse bridge in the hope of spotting salmon swimming upriver to spawn, were it the right time of year. She’d call out to the men toiling at the old quarry workings as she passed by, although was sufficiently mindful of Amos’s feelings not to venture too near. She knew where the badger setts were, could differentiate easily now between a buzzard and an eagle, mistaking neither for a vulture, and liked nothing better than whiling away a happy half hour sitting by the river watching an otter at play.
Ella loved everything about the dale: the yellow lichen that crusted the dry stone walls, the mists that feathered the mountaintops. She loved the way the bracken formed patches of russet amidst the grey jumble of rocks, looking for all the world like splashes of paint from an artist’s palette. The valley was to Ella a place of beauty, a perfect haven of peace and tranquillity.
And she’d also come to love this ready-made family of hers.
Life at Todd Farm was most definitely improving for the better. If only she could say the same for her marriage.
On this particular afternoon they were down at the riverbank, celebrating Emmett’s eighth birthday. Amos no longer expected Ella to share in his love for fishing, although he considered it much more than simply a sport when it produced a fine plump trout for their tea. He would occasionally ask if she’d like to help by passing him the net.
Today, since this was a special occasion, Ella had brought a picnic and Emmett and Tilda were giggling and having fun as they dabbled in the shallows, hoping to catch a trout with their bare hands. Tickling, they called it. Amos had bought his son a rod for his birthday and had spent the past hour teaching him how to use it. Now he seemed content to let the boy play, a sign of the more relaxed way in which Amos was treating both his wife and his children.
Ella lay back on the grassy bank, smiling at the antics of a red squirrel performing its acrobatic tricks among a cluster of ash and larch. Beth, the Border collie, was flopped beside her, as she so often was these days. The old dog largely left all the chasing about to the younger dogs now, confining her energies to a little gentle chivvying of the sheep, which never seemed to tire her. But when the master was engrossed in some occupation that did not include her, Ella was her first choice of substitute now.
The sky was a rain-washed blue on this lovely autumn day, marred only by a few streaks of white cloud that very much resembled the skeleton of a fish, filling Ella with a deep contentment. Life was good, on the whole, yet deep in her heart she was aware of a growing ache. She longed for a child of her own, if only her husband could love her enough to help her make one.
Mrs Rackett was dozing, but without opening her eyes she suddenly said, ‘Patience is a double-edged sword. On the one side good enough to blunt pain, but on the other it can cut off the hand that wields it. Sometimes, thee has to grasp the metal and fight for what you want.’
Ella looked up at the old woman, startled. Was she a witch, able to read unspoken thoughts? And what did she mean exactly with this talk of a double-edged sword? It was typical of the sort of rambling nonsense she often spouted, yet there was a certain twisted logic to it. Was Ella being too patient waiting for Amos to make the first move? Should she object to his still stubbornly climbing those stairs to the attic every night? Should she grasp the metal, or was it the nettle, however the proper saying went?
And if she did, would he reject her again, as he had once before? Dare she try one more time, or might she live to regret taking the risk? Ella decided she needed to think a little more about this to be sure it was what she wanted.
Amos caught three fine trout which would provide them with a splendid meal later. Once the fish were properly dealt with and safely stowed away in his basket, Ella spread the cloth and got out the fresh bread she’d baked specially that morning, the cheese and pickles, spicy currant pasties, and the children’s favourite, a Victoria jam sponge. On this occasion it was smothered with white icing in honour of Emmett’s birthday. She placed eight tiny candles on the top, ready to light when the moment of celebration arrived.
They feasted well, the children happily chatting about school and the favourite meals that their aunt would sometimes make for them during the week.
‘Aunty Molly is very kind but she isn’t as good a cooker as you, Ella.’
‘Cook, not cooker. Though I’m quite certain she is. She has been doing it for years, while I am still learning.’
‘Then you are a very able student,’ Amos said, biting into the crusty bread spread liberally with Ella’s own butter. As always, the rare compliment brought a flush to her cheeks. His mouth lifted slightly into the ghost of a smile, transforming his usually plain face into one that, if not exactly handsome, was filled with kindness and joy. A look that warmed her heart. Then his gaze shifted to linger upon her mouth, before he turned quickly away to cut himself another chunk of cheese. Ella felt suddenly flustered and her heart skipped a beat.
Quite out of the blue, or perhaps as a means of changing the subject, she asked a question that had been on her mind for some time. ‘Why don’t the children go to the little school in the valley, the one down by Kentmere Hall? Wouldn’t it be marvellous to have them home with us all the time?’
‘It’s too far to walk every day,’ Amos grumbled.
‘I wouldn’t mind taking them and bringing them back. Wouldn’t you like to live at home?’ she asked them, seeing how their little faces had lit up at her suggestion. But they glanced anxiously across at their father, not quite brave enough to agree that they would.
‘And what about when it rains? Look what happened when Tilda got soaked that time. Do you want her to get sick again?’
‘Of course not,’ Ella said, but she could see that he’d made a valid point. She turned the problem over in her head as she nibbled her bread and butter. ‘
I don’t suppose we could buy a pony and trap? I could handle one of those so much better than the big farm cart. Wouldn’t that make things easier? Or you could buy us a fell pony each next time there’s an auction. I can ride, you know. Father paid for me to have lessons. That’s something good he did do for me.’ She looked at him hopefully but Amos made no response, just kept on stolidly eating his bread and cheese.
‘If I had a trap, I could take the eggs and cheese into Kendal myself, without troubling Mrs Jessop,’ she mused. ‘Or we could go in together, she and I, taking turns to drive. It really is time I took more responsibility for the marketing, don’t you think, Amos? And I’m sure I’d be perfectly safe, so long as I didn’t go in the heat of the summer when there might be fever about. I know my way around very well, of course, having been brought up there.’
He looked at her, frowning, saying nothing.
‘What do you think?’ Her heart was pounding, wondering if she dared hope.
‘I’ll take you into Kendal again, if that’s what this is all about.’
‘Oh, but you’ve said that before and then something crops up and it gets forgotten. I know you’re busy, but I only had an hour last time. I’ve had a letter from Livia, begging me to come, wanting me to spend longer next time. Oh, and Tilda is in dire need of new boots before winter sets in.’
‘We’ll go in to market next week,’ he suddenly agreed, his lips twitching at the corners again, as if holding back a smile. ‘I was, in any case, thinking of getting you some extra help in the house, and mebbe I’ll take on a hired man.’
‘Really? Oh, that would be wonderful.’ Ella clapped her hands with joy, startled and pleased by his generosity, suddenly filled with excitement at the prospect of a trip into town. ‘How wonderful! Something to look forward to. Now I shall light the candles, and you must blow them all out at once, Emmett, for luck. Oh, you are so good to me, Amos,’ and leaning over the cake, she kissed him soundly. The children laughed out loud with delight.
Livia refused to speak of what had happened, hadn’t even cried, wouldn’t allow herself to show the slightest sign of weakness. She bottled up the pain deep inside, and nothing would persuade her to pick the scab off the sore and examine it. What right did she have to complain, or feel sorry for herself? Her father had done worse to his own daughter, who was now dead because of his brutality and abuse.
Yet despite her brave show and apparent outward calm, Livia was not coping well. She remained deeply shocked by the assault, and felt strangely vulnerable, not at all her usual confident self as she cycled out on her days off. She’d keep nervously glancing back over her shoulder, worried that he might be following her.
Livia had never seen the world as benign, or a particularly safe place, all too aware from her experiences at the hands of a brutish father that you had only to scratch the surface to find evil within. But she’d believed this sort of misery, so far as her own safety was concerned, was largely confined to the tower room in Angel House. Now she saw violence as endemic. It was everywhere, touching everyone. Whom could she trust, if not an old friend like Henry, or even her own darling Jack, who had completely over-reacted?
She was deeply thankful that Henry hadn’t succeeded in committing rape, although it had been a near thing. Her fingers scrabbling through the shards of pottery had finally located a large, heavy pot, which she’d used to hit him over the head. He’d already been half-stunned when Jack had come smashing his way into the conservatory on his mythical white charger to rescue her.
As a consequence of this heroic act, or rather of the beating he’d given his employer, Jack had lost his job at Hodson’s Hosiery factory. It had been the first thing Henry said when he’d come round, all too quickly. Livia had been furious with Jack for that, and she’d turned on him the moment they reached the loft on Fellside.
‘I could have managed perfectly well. There was really no need for you to come charging in like a bull in a china shop.’
‘There was every need. He was raping you for God’s sake!’
Livia was alarmed to find that she was actually shaking, and her teeth were chattering as if with the cold, yet she answered robustly enough. ‘I’d already socked him one with a plant pot.’
‘He could easily have recovered and finished what he’d started.’
‘Nevertheless, you overdid it. There was really no need for you to hit him quite so many times. I cannot abide men who have no control over their temper.’
Livia was thinking of her own father, of all the times while they were growing up that he’d lashed out and hurt his daughters, and the damage he’d caused them to this day. The thought that Jack might prove to have the same problem with his temper sickened her. Livia loathed violence. She feared it, half suspected it might be prevalent in all men by their very nature. She certainly seemed destined to have her life blighted by it.
Unfortunately, Jack didn’t see things in quite the same way, and couldn’t understand why she was angry with him and not Henry. He instantly took offence. ‘Oh, so I should have just stood back and let him assault you, should I?’
‘I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself.’
‘It didn’t look that way to me. You should never have gone to see your father, not alone. You should have waited for me to come with you.’
‘You aren’t always right, Jack Flint. You don’t have to play Sir Galahad for me.’
‘Now there’s gratitude for you. I’ll remember not to bother next time.’ And he’d stormed off in a huff, slamming the door behind him.
Jessie had taken no part in this argument, nor chastised Livia for putting herself in such a vulnerable position. The poor girl had surely suffered enough already. She’d set about boiling water, calmly filling the hip bath and tenderly bathing her, ready to hold her close when she sobbed. But Livia hadn’t shed a single tear, not then or since.
Livia felt as if her whole world was falling apart, her life in turmoil. She was in danger of losing the man she loved, her father was controlling her life as much as ever, and she really didn’t know what to do for the best. Henry might have failed in his intention to impregnate her, but he’d certainly succeeded in driving a wedge between herself and Jack, one that seemed insurmountable.
It was, however, only too clear who was really to blame for all of this, who the real perpetrator of the crime was. The attack hadn’t been Henry’s idea at all. He’d been egged on by her father, had admitted as much even as he’d pawed at her with his fat, greedy fingers. Henry had been talked into using violence in order to get her pregnant, which he’d naively believed would compel her to accept that fateful walk to the altar.
There was no doubt in Livia’s mind that the root cause of all of this was her father’s need for money. Henry must have some hold over him, some financial or political clout, or else her father needed a stash of cash to pay off some gambling debt or other. Livia was well aware of his weakness for gaming, to which it seemed she must now add a fondness for women too. And, in custom with his usual way of doing business, he was offering his own daughter as merchandise in return for some favour or other. No doubt he considered the exchange a fair bargain. Did he imagine she didn’t have the wit to understand how his vile mind worked?
But how to defeat him? That was the question. The only effective way must be to publicly denounce him and reveal to the people of Kendal what a debauched, depraved brute he really was. The question was, did she possess the necessary courage to take him on? And was there any hope that she’d win, or would she succeed only in destroying herself in the process?
Chapter Thirty-Two
Throughout the long days that followed, Livia was finding it increasingly difficult to keep up the pretence that nothing unpleasant had occurred. This dark unnamed fear seemed to grow inside her like a canker, and she couldn’t rid herself of a constant sense of unease and anxiety. She felt dirty, violated, even though she’d been spared the worst. She almost wished that she could cry, then she might dislodge this
solid pain that seemed to have lodged itself somewhere below her breast bone.
And the peace she’d strived so hard to achieve following Maggie’s death was now lost.
Livia understood that she could have Henry charged with attempted rape, as Jack urged her to do. But she refused point-blank, and so they embarked upon their worst row yet.
‘Why do you protect him?’
‘I’m not, I’m protecting myself. I have no wish for my personal life to be bandied about, or appear in the gossip columns of some local rag.’
‘It’s his reputation that would suffer, not yours.’
‘Henry would claim that I’d led him on, that I’d wanted him really. Rampant for it, as he himself accused me of. He’d say that I’d changed my mind at the last minute but then I’d hit him with the plant pot without allowing him the chance to retreat. Then you came charging in, hell-bent on attack, when really he’d already backed off. He’d accuse you of losing your temper and refusing to stop and listen. It’s no good pretending otherwise, Jack. They’d believe him, not me.’
‘Rubbish. Not all men are like your precious Henry!’
‘He isn’t my precious Henry, and please don’t shout. So far as I can see, all men are exactly like my father. There’s no question that he is the one behind this latest plot. Men are despicable, bad-tempered and foul-mouthed, born bullies and bursting with aggression. And their view of women is low, the only consolation being that women generally hold men in even worse contempt!’
She had to stop to catch her breath after this outburst, but her bitter words etched deep sadness in his face. He made no attempt to defend his gender, as she continued with her point.
‘Consider how it will appear to anyone not aware of the true facts.’ Livia held out her hands as if to plead with him. ‘My father is supposedly grieving, having lost his youngest daughter in the most dreadful circumstances, yet I’ve left home and deserted him, for no reason anyone can quite understand. More shocking still, I’m having an affair with a man known for being a rabble-rouser, shamelessly behaving as if I were his wife when there is in fact no ring on my finger. I am, in their eyes, a fallen woman.
House of Angels Page 26
